I Die Anyway
by J-J-Sawyer-Phillips
Summary: A Lieutenant Duckling (Captain Swan) two-shot based on a Tumblr prompt and a fic battle. Princess Emma has been engaged to Prince Baelfire since they were children in order to maintain an alliance between their kingdoms. Yet nothing prepared her to be isolated and openly scorned when she was sent to live with her new family.
1. I Die Anyway

Emma runs out of the dining hall, sobs caught in her throat and hands clinging to the sodden neckline of her dress. She promised herself that she wouldn't let him see her cry, wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing that his vicious words and even crueler actions had the power to wound her. For years, ever since she turned sixteen and was considered a woman by gods and men, she had lived at her fiancé's court, learning how to live and rule and die as people in the Dark Kingdom would expect her to. And every second of that time, waking and sleeping, has been one torment after another. She knows the story, of the unfortunate accident that left King Rumplestiltskin's heir lame, yet she cannot find it in her heart to forgive the bitter, venomous young man who has made her life a living nightmare and whose bed she'll one day be forced to share.

Tonight, it was the cut of Emma's gown that had offended Prince Baelfire. He had begun by chiding her that the skirt wasn't full enough to hide her trim waist and rounded hips, the bodice was cut too low and without the proper amount of concealing lace; he claimed that only strumpets wore dresses such as hers, ones that hugged womanly curves and revealed even the tiniest amount of bosom. She had politely reminded him that the beautiful satin and lace creation had been requested for her by him, and that his own father had remarked on the modest sophistication of it and how it made her look just as a maiden should. The mention of the King's approval had apparently been the last straw, or perhaps it had drawn too close to defiance against his opinions; Baelfire had gripped her upper arm roughly and dragged her from her chair, leaving her asprawl at his feet. Making a Princess and one's fiancée kneel like a whore in the presence of the entire court would have been trying enough, but he had ripped the offending lace off of her décolletage and poured his goblet of wine down her bodice.

She gulps at the air as she runs, desperately trying to breathe and to halt the tears that keep welling to her eyes. All her life, at the court of King David and Queen Snow, she had been treated with dignity and respect. She so easily could have turned out to be a shallow, spoiled creature, but her parents had raised her to believe that every life, every person deserved to be treated with kindness and fairness. Not even servants who were turned out for thieving would be treated in the callous, degrading manner to which she had just been subjected. Emma's tears finally fall at that thought, as she wishes yet again to have this sham of an engagement broken and to be wrapped in the safety of loving arms once more. She hears her name called softly and whips her head around at the sound. She whimpers in distress when she sees who has dared Prince Baelfire's wrath by going after her, because _of course_ the gods would be cruel enough for _him_ to witness her humiliation.

Her marriage had always been a fact—a betrothal negotiated and set in stone less than a year after she had been born, so that an alliance could be formed between the two kingdoms. Emma had been raised knowing that she would marry for duty, but she had not been prepared for the utter dearth of affection she would know once she set foot on foreign soil. Almost the instant she had been received at court, all of her carefully hand-selected train of ladies-in-waiting and handmaidens had been dismissed by the King and replaced with menial servants and guards. In the nearly four years since then, Emma has been only allowed to speak with her parents' ambassador, three of the wives of the Dark Kingdom's leading nobles, and people who work for the King or for Baelfire. The men set to watch her at all hours have been trained as soldiers, spies, and assassins by the King's marshal, Duke George, and "fraternizing" with the prince's fiancée has been strictly discouraged. And swiftly dealt with if even suspected.

Yet for all that, Lieutenant Jones has followed her from the scene of her most recent degradation. Emma gasps and runs to him, pushing his shoulders roughly in attempt to get him to turn around. "Go, you fool! He'll see this as an act of disloyalty, unless you return immediately! I don't want-"

He stands at attention, heels clicking sharply and echoing through the hallway, and offers her his arm. His eyes touch hers only briefly, so she can see the spark of pity, of understanding before they resume their accustomed blank, unfeeling look—a skill honed by years of burying defiance and resentments deep enough to avoid detection. "My lord Baelfire must have neglected to recall that your highness is not supposed to be traversing the halls without an escort, my lady. It is no disloyalty to the prince to see that his orders are executed."

Even though the words are everything that is correct and she's smart enough to know that listening eyes and ears will report this tableau to the King, Emma's heart breaks a little at the crisp, clinical propriety. She hates to see anyone broken and bereft of their own will, as it is something she so often feels even in the hours and rooms that are her own. She manages a mumbled bit of gratitude and places her hand on top of his, their bodies as far distant as such a stance can allow. As he leads her along the corridors toward her room, her eyes furiously search out the nooks and shadows for royal spies. When they reach the outer door to her chambers, Emma throws caution to the wind, pulling him through with her and bolting them in quickly.

He frames her face with his warm, calloused palms, noticing the lines of pain and the puffiness around her eyes from her unshed tears. He places a soft kiss to her forehead, and Emma melts into his body with a sob of relief. For a moment, all he does is hold her, shelter her from the embarrassment and the torment that he couldn't save her from less than an hour ago. But then something changes. Though still pliant and trembling in his arms, she manages to find the strength to twine around him. Her lips brush against the small, exposed bit of his throat at the top of his uniform collar. He freezes as she moves over him like a vine, climbing higher until her mouth is brushing along his.

He breaks, threading his hand through her hair and angling her head just so. He stares into her hooded, needy gaze before kissing her thoroughly, yet tenderly. Emma's moan of desire startles him, reminds him of where they are, who she is, who he is, and that their lives are not their own. "No. As much as it grieves me, no. If anyone sees us, if anyone suspects, it's death."

A single tear, born of both joy and sorrow, drops down her cheek. "If I don't kiss you, Killian, I die anyway."

Her lips and words, so dangerous and persuasive. He finds himself drowning in another kiss, in the feel of her limbs holding him tightly. His heart beats frantically against the cage of his chest, seeking the warmth of her palm where it rests above its erratic rhythm. Emma's tongue slides daintily along his lower lip, as if in supplication. He opens his mouth to devour hers, recklessly tasting and exploring every inch. They lose all sense of time and self, knowing nothing except how right it feels to be lost together, consumed by the other. But all too soon, his honor and his duty prevail, despite the fact that they have been given to dishonorable men. "I must go now. I love you too much to endanger you this way."

Emma grasps his coat lapels, desperate for him to see and understand. "I don't care about the danger. Please, Killian! We can run away from here; we can be free from this place. I don't need any of this—these pretty trappings, because all they are are bits of gilding for a cage. My cage and yours. A tyrant who degrades his future bride and makes eunuchs of his men doesn't deserve your loyalty or mine, and an oath made to a liar is no oath at all! Take me away, and we can build a life free from this prison."

She punctuates her argument with a kiss—one that he ends all too soon. Killian takes her hands in his, reverently kissing the knuckles and then turning her hands over to place a kiss into each of her palms. "I am so sorry, my love. I cannot un-swear my vows, and I cannot take you away from the palaces and comforts you were born to."

Emma's knees refuse to support her any longer, and she collapses into the nearest settee. With one last look, filled with all the promises that he longs to offer and yet refuses to speak, Killian leaves her chamber and closes the door behind him.

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The next morning, Emma is rudely awoken and commanded from her bed with barely enough time to wrap her dressing gown over her shift. She is dragged out to the balcony where the King stands sipping his morning cup of coffee in a delicate porcelain cup. He gives her a baleful glare before she is deposited by her guard at his side. Below in the courtyard is a scene clearly created exclusively for her eyes—as a test. Balefire sits in his specially designed chair, watching as Duke George flays open the back of one of his soldiers. The lash falls with brutal accuracy, stripping bits of skin away with each tug and calling up lines of blood to drip from torn flesh. The spectacle is so consuming in its violence that it takes her a few moments to recognize the long black hair, no longer pulled back in its tidy queue, and has to bite her lip to keep herself from crying out, especially when she hears the power-mad voice of her fiancé.

"I want to see bone, you catamite! Make him truly suffer! Are you lashing him, or giving him a massage, old goat?!" One of the guards stalks over to the Prince and speaks low into his ear. Baelfire turns most of his body around in his chair, narrowed eyes locking quickly onto where she stands at the balcony. A few barked commands and a wave of his hand changes the scene. Killian is unshackled from the whipping post and dragged by two of his fellow guardsmen to a block. "Several witness have denounced you for having touched the Princess, my fiancée—my property! Since you need to learn to keep your hands to yourself…"

She barely holds back her startled gasp and the bile that rises in her throat when his left hand is placed on the block. With the snap of a finger, the executioner pulls a red-hot blade from the fire and severs the hand from his arm just above the wrist. His howl of agony rips through her, heart and soul, yet she cannot even shed a tear for fear of making his suffering worse. If Baelfire and Rumplestiltskin believe or even suspect that she truly cares for Killian… So, she does something that has proven useless in recent memory—she closes her eyes and prays. "My apologies that you had to witness something so off-putting this early in the morning, but my son insisted on avenging the slight to your honor immediately. It's just that we felt the lesson was best delivered swiftly."

"The lesson, your majesty?"

The King's eyes glint dangerously, and she knows she has come perilously close to revealing that which must remain secret at all costs. "Why, that whatever the item in question may be, one does not steal _anything_ from our family, dearie."

He walks away after giving her a theatrically elaborate bow. She wants nothing more than to disintegrate, to crack and crumble like a smashed stone and scatter her dust to the winds. The guard remains at her side as she watches the army healers rush to attend the whipped and beaten man, as they attempt to save his life. Baelfire has his companion wheel him away from the scene of torture, uninterested in the agony and torment that will go into keeping one former soldier alive. Before long, Killian is deemed stable enough to move and is carried away in a stretcher beyond her sight.

Later that night, in a secret meeting with her parents' ambassador, she begs him to find the injured and disgraced lieutenant and somehow smuggle him to safety. She also breaks her silence regarding the indignities she has suffered at the hands of her fiancé and her future father-in-law. The aged courtier promises to do his best, but reminds her that only gods can enact miracles.

Less than a month later, Emma's rooms are deemed unsafe from would-be assassins, and she is given chambers in one of the castle's many towers. To add insult to injury, her kingdom's ambassador is recalled home, but not before he is able to smuggle a message in cipher to her which she burns immediately after reading it. _It is done; he is safe_.

By the end of the year, preparations for her wedding to Prince Baelfire begin with renewed enthusiasm on the part of the citizens of the Dark Kingdom. No new representatives arrive from her father's court, and the King brushes aside her concern over the lack of letters and information as unimportant in the midst of planning for her marriage. Yet all the shrill talk of finery and feasts doesn't prevent rumors reaching her eager ears of a new, dangerous enemy of the state: a pirate with a hook in place of his left hand who plunders and burns any ship bearing the colors of the Dark Kingdom.


	2. If I Die Young

Emma paces the full circuit around her tower room—her thinly veiled prison whose only exits are the door to the winding staircase and a fatal drop to the jagged rocks and the surging surf that wait at least a fathom below her window. She's tried every single excuse she can think of to delay the wedding, but her time has finally run out. She'd begged her future father-in-law to postpone until the spring winds came, making the sea crossing possible for her parents to be with her on her wedding day. An ocean voyage during the raging storms of winter was utterly unthinkable, with not even mad men daring to hazard his life in a gamble with the god of the sea. Merchants, travelers, royalty, and commoner alike all waited until spring mellowed and soothed the almighty wrath of the waters.

No matter where she stands, the dress set on display absorbs her every thought. It truly is a beautiful gown—the under-dress is made of a soft silk that's so white it appears blue when the light hits it just so; the overdress is made of cloth of gold, spun and woven especially to match the sheen of her hair; the lace is also made of finely spun gold and a fortune in pearls, diamonds, and emeralds are sewn into the stiff skirt and bodice. She absolutely loathes it. Everything about it screams the fact that she will be just another ornament, just a jewel in the crown of the Dark Kingdom. And like a priceless bauble, she will be expected to remain still, beautiful, and mute.

She growls under her breath again, cursing the weight of it, the cut, and how it makes her resemble a doll more than a woman. She grinned at the last because she had managed a two week delay by pleading her womanly moon time, and surely his majesty would want to do his best to ensure an heir in her belly as soon as possible, yes? But that had been thirteen days ago. Despite not agreeing to wait for her parents to attend the festivities, every other request of Emma's, no matter how bizarre, had been met with almost obscene speed. Even when she asked that they be married by a quite specific holy man—practically a hermit who eschewed the monastic life of the temples and venerated the saints, gods, and goddesses of love from all lands with a very small ascetic community of believers high in the mountains.

Her will had been done, and the ancient reverend had arrived just this morning. She had met with the priest briefly when he was received by King Rumplestiltskin and Prince Baelfire after breaking their fast. The last delay tactic, her final card would be played that night. Emma had asked for permission to come down to the chapel where she would become a married woman and to be allowed to have the holy man hear her confession and then to hold a vigil in supplication to the goddess of the hearth and of motherhood. Though her fiancé's eyes had sparked with a feral curiosity at her sudden show of piety and then darkened with fury at his father's acquiescence, she had managed to remain calm and not reveal the hope for salvation from this sham of a wedding that she had allowed to carry inside her heart, a tiny yet fiercely glowing coal.

She had been the picture of calm, regal poise all through the final fittings of that monstrosity of a dress that keeps weighing on her mind, even when she's turned away from it with her eyes closed. Not for the first time, she moves quickly to the window and forces the glass open. A cold, wet wind howls into the room and the snarling, crashing waves reverberate through her whole body as they pummel the cliffs and the stone walls. She wonders if falling would feel anything near what she's imagined flying to be like; would she die by hitting the rocks, or would a wave lift her up before dragging her down to the depths? She's heard a legend, a half-told tale that mermaids are drowned women, reborn to serve the lords of the ocean and lure sailors to a watery grave. If she's brave enough to jump, whose soul will she seek and claim and devour?

But she isn't courageous enough, because some part of her refuses to give up, refuses to believe that all hope is lost, and so refuses to let her die. Despite the fact that it hasn't seemed to do her much good, she breathes yet another prayer as the salt-laden, bitterly cold winds press against her body. _Let him be safe. Let him be happy._ As foolish a wish as any she could ask for, but if the gods will that one of them suffers, she wants it to be her. She finally does what she usually does after sending her achingly hopeless prayer to the heavens and sits on the window ledge staring at the horizon, wondering where he is and what he is doing. She has no doubt that he found his freedom somewhere in the realms—her father's former ambassador had at least given her that small measure of comfort, slipping her a message to inform her that Killian Jones had been spirited to safety.

Her heart pounds painfully against her ribs in panic every time she thinks of him, and it takes her a long time to calm herself by repeating the words of the letter. For merely daring to touch her hand, innocently and chastely holding it on top of his while he escorted her to her rooms, Prince Baelfire had had him whipped ruthlessly and dismissed from service. Those injuries would have been hard enough to bear for any man, let alone one as proud as the young lieutenant of the guard who had steadily and quietly earned her trust and regard over the four years she had been living at court; but her vicious fiancé hadn't stopped there, commanding that his left hand be taken as well. Making Emma stand on the balcony above the courtyard and watch it happen was only part of her torture—the severed hand had been embalmed and presented to her as a gift.

Such casual cruelty formed the base of her violent loathing of the lame Prince, and all his other behaviors simply confirmed her aversion. If he had discovered that Killian had claimed her heart and soul, had given her a few precious kisses and fleeting moments of happiness, then he would have done far worse than separate a hand from the lieutenant's body. She shivers at the thought of such a fate befalling the one man she has ever loved. "My lady! You'll catch your death sitting in that wind! There's a storm a'brewin' out there and make no mistake. Me old bones can feel it when we're in for a right hurricane. Come now and let's get you bundled up proper—it won't do for you to get a chill on the eve of your weddin'. The holy father has sent for you like you asked, and the King said to make certain you don't go out without right warm clothes."

The scullery drudge turned lady's maid, Johanna, bustles about like a force of nature all her own, quickly shutting and latching the windows tight and chivying Emma toward the wardrobe. The woman is kind, considerate, and as companionable as possible; she often reminds Emma of some of her better nursemaids and governesses growing up. But for all that, Johanna is careful to discuss nothing of import and answer almost none of her charge's questions. Emma has no doubt that her employment and her life would be forfeit at the least should the maid take it in her head to show any sort of loyalty to anyone other than the King and the Prince. Johanna continues her prattle about the terrible weather in the offing and how it's considered a good omen in the Dark Kingdom for a rain storm on a wedding day—a sign that the gods show favor to the couple and that their marriage will be free of such tempests. Emma only listens with half an ear, impatient to see the priest and lay her case before him.

Johanna strips Emma and replaces her wispy, insubstantial satin gown for something plainer, warmer, and sturdier. The woolen material is fine and soft to the touch, clearly made of delicate lambskin, dyed to a brilliant shade of green. Emma slips on a short pair of boots for the trek across the castle steps and through the bailey to the chapel that was originally built into the thick fortress wall; it seems an age since the last time she was allowed outside, to see the sky without a pane of glass between her and it. Johanna wraps her in a thick cloak as well—a dark, heavy fabric lined with rabbit's fur for extra warmth. Her task completed, Johanna walks with Emma out of her rooms where they are joined by a pair of guards.

Ever since she had been practically imprisoned within her "new suite," she has had at least two guards flanking her every movement outside of her bed chamber. All a part of the King's insistence that the security of Emma's person is a matter of life and death to the people of the Dark Kingdom, anxious for the consummation of her marriage to the Prince and the begetting of more heirs. The last possibility makes her shiver uncontrollably as she and her entourage make their way down the winding staircase and increases the number of prayers that the hermit will take pity on her plight. When they finally reach the ground floor, Johanna remains by her side instead of heading off to report to the King, or whatever other duty it is that she fulfills when she isn't acting as lady's maid.

"The King was quite specific in his instruction that the Princess Emma not be left alone in the chapel." The guards hadn't expected her to continue with them, but grunt their acceptance of her presence. After all, a king cannot be bothered to communicate every single instruction to every single servant and soldier within the palace. Emma sighs resignedly, though not in defeat; she had hoped to be able to put her case to the holy man face to face without a prying audience, but there's still the inviolable sanctity of confession, so she will still be able to have her private conversation. It simply means that she won't be able to look him in the eye—her words will be the only tool she can use to convince the hermit that she requires his aid and that her causes are just.

Emma breathes in the moist air as soon as they begin the walk across the bailey, relishing the fleeting exhilaration of being free. Johanna's prediction of a storm proves accurate when a mist begins to fall and the rumble of thunder echoes distantly through the courtyard. But all too soon, they approach the chapel. Her heart drops when she notices that not only are there guards at the front door and on the walls above, but soldiers are also stationed at the temple's other exits. It seems that King Rumplestiltskin refuses to be overestimated in his desire to keep what he deems his property. She is ushered into the chill quiet of the sanctuary with little fuss or fanfare, and the guards immediately shut and bolt the doors behind her. The stones echo hollowly the rustling of her skirts as she moves to take off her boots; one always approaches a god with humility, with head and feet bared.

Instead of moving to do the same, Johanna places her back to the doors and remains still as a statue. Perhaps, for all her unswerving loyalty to Rumplestiltskin and Baelfire, the woman fears the eternal lash of a deity more than the whip hand of her temporal masters. Emma doesn't truly stop to question her servant's motives, calculating in her mind just how low she'll need to speak in order for her to converse freely with the priest. With her heart beating a rapid staccato against her ribs, she daintily lifts the hem of her gown and makes her way to the front of the chapel. The penitent's chamber is little more than two golden booths with a latticed grill between the two. Normally, they are much simpler affairs of solid wood, so that the confessor and the confessed are hidden from the eyes of anyone congregating in the sanctuary. Yet even here, the King's lust for all things useless and gaudy displays itself, so she can clearly see the rough brown woolen of a monk's robes through the scroll-work.

Emma takes another bracing breath of air—though this one is not at all fresh and tainted by the sting of stale incense—and assumes her place as a penitent. She kneels gracefully, thankful that someone thought to provide a cushion for her comfort. From her position, she can see only his hood in profile; but custom dictates such anonymity, and so she bows her head and places her closed right fist over her heart. "Bless me, father, for I am a sinner. I—I'm sorry that you were disturbed from your solitude, but word of your devotion and piety reached even my ears. When I learned of your life of holiness, I saw it as a sign that my prayers might be answered, and so I asked that you be sent for."

Several seconds pass before she hears an answer in a deep, soothing voice. "There is no need to apologize, my dear. Even those who have chosen to live apart from the world must occasionally obey the commands of those who have been given power and authority. And I must myself confess to having been a trifle curious about you, your highness; for even in the mountains we hear whispers of what passes in the halls of Kings, and word of a princess as blessed with a kind heart and a strong, yet gentle spirit as with beauty is something that gods and saints do not ignore. Now tell me, dear—what sins do you have which burden your conscience?"

Emma bites her lip, sending yet another prayer winging into the universe, hoping that she has chosen wisely and not in vain. "Father, as you know, I am supposed to be wed tomorrow. But I confess that I do not love the man who is to be my husband, and that there is no possibility of growing to even tolerate him. I confess that I cannot enter the sacred bond of marriage with him without besmirching and fouling my soul."

She hears a sharp inhale and gains the courage to look at the holy man again. His body is rigid with tension, and yet she can see the rise and fall of his chest. "You speak dangerous words, your highness. Ones that could be construed as treasonous or even blasphemous. You know that the gods exhort us to love all of mankind and be charitable to those who are our enemies."

"Forgive me for being so bold, father, but one can feel compassion for a wounded animal and yet strike it dead before it brings harm upon others. I am not here to discuss and enumerate my fiancé's faults, but they are relevant to my lack of devotion to him. I could forgive him his cruelties to me, even though they are beyond counting, but I cannot ever bring myself to share with him even a morsel of compassion because of the vicious ill-treatment and ill-will he has shown to—to someone I truly care for."

"And this person you mention… Who is he, and what trespass was committed against him?"

"His identity matters naught to you, priest! I would forfeit my life before ever endangering his. Father, please hear me! I had you summoned because you are my final hope at averting disaster. I beg you, please give me sanctuary! Not even the King would risk the displeasure of the gods if you heed my plea for mercy and offer me your protection! I cannot marry Baelfire and am prepared to die to prevent it. I will not surrender my body—certainly not where my heart is _not_ mute, but rather vehemently in rebellion against such a match.

"I cannot beseech the blessing of the gods on my womb and pray that I conceive when my entire being revolts at the thought of that tyrant's touch! It would be a far greater sin to nurture his seed and bring forth a child into this ruthless world who will never be loved by its father. My parents, if they do know of my suffering, have no means by which to redeem me. I might as well be an orphan, utterly bereft of family and friends! Please, holy father, for pity's sake have mercy and grant me sanctuary."

A soft, sad sigh reaches her ear. "My dear Emma, you are not without friends in this land. Would you truly commit the ultimate offense to the gods by destroying yourself? By harming that beautiful body and soul which angels surely had a hand in creating? Could you truly die by your own hand?"

Her chin jerks up in defiance of his cloying, honeyed words, and she angrily grasps and rattles the grill between them. Her eyes spark with fury, and all semblance of quiet, regal control are lost. "Yes! I love another beyond life itself, and since I cannot bend my will to submit to the Prince, I will gladly sacrifice my life to the sea. And I pray _that_ god will at the least take my soul out of pity!"

She rises abruptly, body all but vibrating with contained wrath at the capricious nature of gods and their servants. She begins to stride back across the sanctuary when she halts abruptly, noticing that Johanna is no longer standing in front of the doors. In fact, she's not in the chapel at all. A shiver of fear ripples down her spine before she is hauled back against someone's body. Someone whose chest is a plane of solid muscle; someone whose right hand is rough and calloused on the palm, and littered with scars along the back and the knuckles; someone with a hook where his left hand should be. Emma has to bite back a moan when a beloved, now tenderly familiar voice speaks into her ear, lips ghosting over the shell and lobe. "He'll have to fight me for you, love, because I'm not about to let you slip through my fingers again."

Tears stream down her face as he holds her tightly and kisses her hair, her neck, her shoulder. She reaches a hand behind her to run her fingers through his hair, a sob and more tears descending when she discovers that it's far shorter than he ever kept it while she knew him. Emma finally turns around in his arms, cupping his face in her hands as her eyes trace all the changes wrought on his adored features. His own eyes are clear and open, dozens of emotions flashing across them at a dizzying speed. His skin is darker, tanned and chapped by the sun on the sea and the winds. There's a scar that cuts across his right cheekbone that's new, and lines of pain and anger around his lips and eyes. But it's _him_! And he's alive and he's safe and _here_!

And then Emma forgets what it's like to breathe because she's pouring every fiber of her being into kissing him. Later, she'll ask him about the escape; and he'll tell her that Johanna has long been a spy for her father's ambassador, who helped smuggle him out of the castle and into the next kingdom. She'll ask him about his hand, and he'll tell her how weak and close to death he had been from the infection that set in. She'll ask him about the rumors of a dreaded pirate who gives no quarter to ships sailing under the Dark Kingdom's colors, and he'll tell her how he hoped and prayed that she had heard and knew he was coming to rescue her. She'll even ask him about the priest, and he'll tell her a wild tale of convincing a holy hermit to pose as a pirate for a day while he swept in to save the woman he loves more than life.

But in that instant the only thing that matters is that she has been starved for him for months. His monk's robes and her cloak are quickly discarded, falling to the floor in front of the altar steps. One of her hands is buried in his hair, and the other clings to his shoulder. Without breaking their kiss, he kneels slightly, manages to catch her legs, and with her help, brings them up to wrap around his waist. He presses her back into the stone wall beside the penitent's chamber, blazing a hot trail with his lips over her chin and down her throat toward her shoulder. She whimpers at the feel of his leather-covered erection rubbing against her desire-slicked folds, and her breath comes out in soft, frantic pants. "Oh, Killian, I've missed you!"

He startles a bit at the sound of his own name falling from her lips, but continues to lick and suck and nibble and tease her flesh. "You are the first and the last person who's called me that, Emma love. Needed a more fearsome name to go with my reputation as a plundering, rapacious pirate."

The bitterness and anger in his tone tear at her heart; she was always the one to see the clouds, and he the sunshine. Knowing that Baelfire has taken more from him then his hand breaks some final piece inside her, crystallizes a decision that she didn't even know she was making. "Let's seal it then and turn you into a legend."

She uses the leverage of her hand in his raven hair to pull his lips back to hers before reaching between them to tug at the laces of his trousers. She locks her legs around him and sucks his tongue into her mouth when she senses that his more gentlemanly nature finally understands her words. A long, low moan vibrates through him when she frees his cock and runs the head against her bare, soaked slit. "I don't care, Killian! Damn and forget every last one of them! It's you and me in the eyes of the saints and their gods—only us! Make me yours. I want you to ravish me; you can feel how much I want you to!"

With a hard, quick kiss, he agrees and then desperately looks around the sanctuary. The only flat surfaces are the floor itself, the priest's bench in the penitent's chamber, and the high altar. With a feline grace she's never seen, he ascends the few steps two at a time and sits her on top of the purple satin altar-cloth without even jostling her or shifting her in his arms. He runs his hand over her hair, eyes seeking, urgently trying to read her own. Whatever he sees reassures him, and fiery need blazes across his features once more. He dips his head to her chest, mouth teasing the tantalizing hints of the tops of her breasts. Emma moans, wrapping her arms around his neck and threading her fingers through his hair.

She feels a sudden tug and then hears the rip of his hook through the fabric of her gown. Cool air rushes over her flushed skin through the drooping halves of her bodice. A part of her brain blesses Johanna for being too hurried to bother with undergarments before blanking on everything except the sensation of his lips wrapped around one of her peaked nipples and of the head of his cock pressing against her entrance. He takes his time, slowly easing in and out, burying himself deeper with each controlled movement. Emma whimpers at the agonizing pace, using her bare heels to dig into his ass and spur him on. He lets out a throaty chuckle that she can feel all the way through where they are connected, and her eyes roll back into her head.

"So impatient, princess! Tell me something, darling—do you often fantasize about being taken by a devastatingly handsome pirate in a temple? Do you touch yourself and imagine it's some villain come to steal you away from your castle?" Her eyes are dark, hazy jade shards glittering with lust. Caught up in the intensity of her gaze, he gasps when she tightens her thighs and slams her feet against his lower back. Her movements cause him to jerk forward, tearing the gossamer veil of her maidenhead and filling her to the hilt. If there is any discomfort or pain on her part, he can't tell, because her body reveals no such thing and the feel of her sheath rippling around the entire length of him is positively divine.

"Only if the pirate's you, Killian." Her words and the sinfully delicious kiss that follows them work like magic and release all of his pent up longing for the woman beneath him. He sets a pace that will no doubt leave both of them sore later, but the all-consuming need that drives them seems fuel by something greater than their passion for each other. Outside, the storm has truly descended. Waves crash and break and crash again upon the ancient cliffs and fortress wall. Lightning strikes all across the countryside, and thunder whip-cracks overhead and rumbles almost continuously. He aches for her even as he relentlessly pounds his hips into hers, as every inch of his length is gloriously milked by the lush, tight confines of her cunt. She's spread out on the altar now, ass barely resting on the edge and back arching to meet him. Another flash of his hook, another rip leaves her dress torn completely in two, so that she truly resembles an offering—a virgin sacrifice.

Emma moans and mewls as his cock hits the end of her with every thrust. He growls at her when she reaches one of her hands up to toy with her breasts—mounding her flesh in her palm or rolling her nipple between thumb and forefinger; she uses the other to tease the both of them—two of her fingers held steady so that they brush along the rigid length of his cock, and her thumb working the pink pearl that lies above her sex. Her every sound makes him mad with lust, and the rippling of her tight pussy and increasingly wet heat of her arousal only spur him harder. He grips her thigh harder with his hand and drives his hook straight into the altar, but even this is not enough. He slides his fingers down her leg to grasp her ankle, throwing her leg above his shoulder before leaning back down to nip and suck at her stomach and breasts.

Her whimpers and moans are now full-fledged cries of pleasure—incoherent sounds of approval and curses interspersed with his name. The harsher angle allows her to take every last centimeter of him, and the moist slap of flesh against flesh echoes as a low harmony to the waves and the thunder. Her orgasm flashes up and down her spine before flowing out to every nook and cranny of her body; every muscle trembling and contracting with the sheer power of it. Her mouth forms into a small "o," yet the only sound that comes from her throat is a high keening. Her sheath becomes impossibly tight in an instant, sending him hurtling after her. A white-hot shaft of pleasure jolts through his being, leaving dots of black and stars to swim across his vision as his seed spurts into her.

He slips from the warmth of her welcoming body and falls to his knees before her, resting his head against her thigh. Everything washes over them as they recover from the sheer intensity of their combined pleasure, still and immovable as the rocks being pummeled by the surf and the tides. He manages to come to himself a bit before she does, placing gentle, reverent kisses along every exposed inch of her skin that he can reach. Seeing goose bumps start to form alongside her cooling sweat, he tucks himself back into his trousers and goes to fetch their cloaks. When he returns to wrap her up, the smile that wreathes her face is beatific.

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The story spreads like wildfire, and every telling of it is different.

Some say that the pirate with a hook for a hand killed the princess in her bed, leaving her cold body to be found on her bridal morning by a distraught and broken-hearted prince.

Some say that her body was never recovered, but that her torn and blood-spattered gown was found by the guards who had to break down the thick wooden doors of the chapel—ripped in two, draped upon the altar with a few shorn locks of golden hair.

Still others say that she leapt to her death, weeping for the loss of her lover and unwilling to go through with a shallow, empty union. This version is most often told by young swains to pretty maids, spinning the tale out to include the princess' prayers being heard by the Sea; of how she became a siren and was eventually reunited with her bold, one-handed sailor in death.

The story no one hears is that the princess was discovered missing in the morning; the guards placed around the temple and her rooms were all found with throats slit; and the beautiful wedding gown was stripped of all the jewels and gold, leaving only the white silk behind, stained with a smear of blood.

Yet every single teller is consistent on one point: the princess was never seen alive again, and the pirate with a hook for a hand dropped off the edge of the world.


	3. Coda

The blacksmith moved to the village with his young wife, oh, at least five years ago now. Terrible thing to happen to such a lovely couple really. Didn't hear the story 'bout that? Well, he was a smithy's apprentice, and she was some merchant's daughter. Her father fancied someone wealthier for her, someone with land or money or power, most like. But the young man and her, well, they loved each other; and so he struck a bargain of some sort with the man to prove his worth. He spent a year puttin' in his time at the forge and working for her father somehow, and one day there was a horrible accident—a fire, I think it was. The young man saved his master, but his hand were crushed and burned by a fallin' beam. Healers had to take it off.

Don't know if they got her father to agree or if they packed up and ran off together, but I've never seen a better match. For all her looks and fine speech, she learned to work side by side with him in that forge and make no mistake! He wields the hammer on the tougher stuff, and she takes the place of his other hand. They can make a good and sturdy shoe, or a bit of fancy work to pretty up the house and make your missus happy. And nowadays, though they're careful round him, you can see 'em trainin' that rascal son of theirs. Got his father's looks, but his mother's feisty eyes and gumption. Never met a lass with greater nerves, and a heart as big as her face is pretty! Downright happy they are, even with the trouble they've had.

Now me, well, I've lived here for ages…


End file.
